


Anything bare is made of gold

by Jojo_fish



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (thats jack), Addiction, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, Awkward Flirting, Brat Kent, But Jack is a good boy and doesnt understand why kenny is such an asshole, Choking, Dom Eric "Bitty" Bittle, Dom/sub, Eric likes making people cry, Everyone is a gay disaster, Explicit Consent, Hickey kink, Hit Kent I Promise He Likes It, I can't write casual hook up culture, I have the hickey kink, I'm Going to Hell, JACK HAS NO IDEA HOW MONEY WORKS, Kent is so whiny, Lardo Is A Mess, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Old Relationships, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panic Attacks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sex Toys, Sub Jack Zimmermann, Sub Kent "kenny" Parson, The First Few Chapters Are Vanilla Tho, and something in between, butt stuff, don't forget angst, i am disasociating so hard i need to vomit, its me, my boys practice safe sane and consentual in this household, new relationships, nothing but explicit consent from me babes, servitude, theres that too, uuh bully me if I forgot anything, we get an intense scene or two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-01-15 19:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18505813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojo_fish/pseuds/Jojo_fish
Summary: In which three boys meet, fall in love, and have some sexy time. not necessarily in that order.Ages are a bit mixed up. Jack did not attend Samwell, but instead stayed in rehab and private training for almost four years.  Shout out to my friend who beta read this and corrected all my dumb bitch mistakes.





	1. I want my life in two

~*disclaimer*~  
I have no idea how sports work. Please excuse my poor attempt at what hockey is, I’m just a poor queer trying to write, tanks. (-,:

-BERRRRRZZZZZZZZ-

 

The high-frequency sound of the puck flying into the upper corner of the net ended the game. Snowy took a jump after it, and got spear checked in the face by the scorer. 

Zimmermann stopped sprinting after the puck as the black and silver confetti fell, and looked up to see all of the opposite team's colors waving and cheering. His heart sank.

To add insult to injury, he was clipped by another player, and he was knocked on his ass.

Number 90 skated up, pulling his helmet off, and offering Jack a hand.  
‘Good game, Zimms.” 

Jack looked up to see the messy blond hair, piercing eyes (that now shone a dark blue), and his heart sank. Kent Parson stood in front of him, hand extended, with a big fucking smug smirk on his face. 

Jack blinked the sweat out of his eyes and scowled. “You’re the one that scored the winning shot, aren't you.” Snowy was getting his face patched, blood pouring down from his cheekbone to his chin and splattering onto the ice. 

Kent didn’t have a chance to respond, as he was side tackled by Tater and a flying fist to the side of the jaw. “You better but mouth guard back in, little rat, I’m going to punch teeth out!”

As the rest of the team came to either join the fight or break it up, Jack skated off the ice.

 

The only good thing about losing in playoffs is that you got to take the rest of the season off.

 

Jack’s only motivation to get out of bed each morning was the promise of a warm cup of coffee and possibly a scone if his nutritionist allowed it. It wasn’t snowing anymore, so Jack pulled on his sneakers and decided to jog to a coffee shop. It helped that he lived right next to one, but that coffee shop was always loud and rushed, and he wanted to sit with a newspaper and fucking relax, for once.

He googled it and found a little hole in the wall that seemed promising. The Yelp reviews were almost all positive, and the photos made it look quaint and homey. Jack scrolled through photos for a bit longer than he should have, trying to prepare himself for the new place.

It was two miles away, but Jack was more than willing to make a morning run if it meant he could get a coffee. (And maybe even a scone, Jack liked the lemon ones)

He fed his fish, locked up his apartment, and set off. April in Rhode Island wasn’t as cold as Quebec, but the sharp sting of the cold air stung his eyes and cheeks.

Fifteen minutes later, he slowed his pace to an in-place-jog in front of the tiny coffee shop. Looking at it, it obviously dripped in southern charm. The small windows in the front had red checkered curtains, and there was a small outside sitting area, with little wooden tables and glossy cast iron red chairs.

He walked in and was surprised at the roomy interior. Couches and small tables lined the walls, with a small coffee bar in the middle. There were hanging lights strung from the ceiling and a few abstract postmodern art pieces on the wall that didn’t quite match but still looked good in the setting. 

 

Jack felt oddly put at ease in this place, but maybe it was the smell of coffee that was a calming influence. 

There were a few scattered people in the room, but altogether it was pretty empty. Behind the counter was a short blond man, humming and casually dancing to a tune Jack couldn’t hear, doing some low tombés under the bar.

He walked up to the little bar in the middle of the room, leaned on the granite countertop and cleared his throat anxiously. The barista froze and spun around, made eye contact and broke into a big smile, showing off his almost perfect teeth.

“Hello! Sorry I didn’t hear you come in. What can I get for you, darlin'?” He has a thick southern accent that dripped like honey sliding off the honeycomb, in sweet, sticky sheets. 

Jack’s ears flushed at the nickname but stuttered out that he wanted a coffee, (black) and asked if, oh, they had any lemon scones. Like the crumbly ones, with the sweet and sour frosting? They were his favorite when he was a kid, his mom made them the best. Since his parents live in Canada, he can't get them as often as he’d like, so it’s always a comfort food. Like mac and cheese, and Poutine.

 

The barista listened to Jack rambling for a minute, laughed and said, “I’m afraid I don’t have those on hand, but I’d be happy to whip up a batch if you have, like, twenty-five minutes to kill? I don’t usually offer, but you’re just the sweetest, and you look like you could use with a little bit of butter in your diet.”

Jack smiled softly.

“My nutritionist would kill me if I told him that. That’s very nice of you, but it’s alright, I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Can I take a lemon bar instead?”

The barista pouted a moment but rang it up on the register. “Alright, darlin', suit yourself, but you’re anything but a bother. Can I have a name for your order?”

“Uuhhh, Jack.” He cringed at how dumb he sounded, even in his own head.

“Nice to meet you Uhh Jack! My name is Eric, but my friends call me Bitty. Let me grab you your lemon bar.” He chirped.low and behold, Eric’s name was on his nametag, in thin looping letters, along with a little smiley face.

He reached into the glass case beside the counter, and grabbed the lemon bar, plopped it on a doily and then on a small plate, and said, “Try this, if you don’t love me at the end of this I’ll give you your money back.”

Jack paid for his coffee the bar, stuffed a ten in the tip jar and sat down at the little stools lining the countertop.

“So Eric, I, like your accent. Where are you from?”

The blond flushed, looking slightly upset. “Now, don’t you start. I sound like a country hick, no need to flatter lil’ old me. I’m a Georgian peach, born and raised! I moved up here for a change of scenery, though.” he fought off the frown that was taking over his face. 

Jack smiles softly. “I don’t think you sound like a hick. I think it’s nice. You sound soft. I mean--” he realized how stupid that sounded as soon as it came out of his mouth, and stuttered for a minute before giving up on that train of thought.

Eric’s whole face turned a warm shade of pink, and he flapped his hand in Jack’s general direction.“You absolute charmer, you. You’re buttering me up ‘cause you want lemon scones.”

Jack laughed, admiring the shorter man’s soft freckles and delicate features. He was basically an angel, glowing with a sugary joy that you could see. “you got me there.”

He put a tiny bit of sugar in his coffee, (because it was off season and who was honestly going to stop him) and took a bite of the lemon bar.

Holy cow. The little “mmff” escaped his mouth before he could stop it. Eric’s lemon bar was just that tasty. Eric looked incredibly smug.

“Eric, did you make this? It’s incredible!”

The smaller blond laughed, and nodded. “Sure thing! I make everything in this bakery, except the walls, ceiling, and paintings. That’s my friend Larissa.

Jack swallowed, trying to enjoy every last bit of the treat. Nate was not going to be happy with his sugar intake. Jack couldn’t find it in him to care.

Looking around at the artwork, it all had a similar look, he guessed they were all by the same artist. He gestured to a large green and yellow painting that was tucked into a back hallway. “Is that supposed to be anything other than, hah, breasts?” It did appear to be featuring a set of boobs, set against a monochromatic green background. 

Eric flushed at that, the tips of his ears going red before the color went flooding to his cheeks. “Now I wouldn’t know anything about that. I thought the colors were gosh darn gorgeous, and I had just gotten my tax returns back, so I figured, why not? I’ll tell you what now, the artist always stops by at around nine, is supposed to drop by in a few minutes, you could ask her! She comes in for a raspberry turnover and a mocha each morning. She’d love to meet a famous hockey player.” he turned and busied himself with wiping down the counters in the opposite side of the bar, ear tips still flushed at his rambling.

Jack stiffened at that, losing track of the casual conversation he was having. “Um, you know?”

Eric slowed, smiling softly over his shoulder. “Honey, I couldn’t miss it. You’re wearing a falconers hat and an NHL shirt. You could say I’m a bit of a fan, I played in college.”

Jack looked down, only now realizing what shirt he was wearing, and fiddled with the hem.

Yeah, hockey is… good. It keeps my mind off things. I get stressed out real quick.”

Eric turned back to furiously scrub down the other counter space, and breathed under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “darlin’, I know what else could keep your mind off things”

Jack probably imagined it though, cause when Eric turned back around, the soft smile was back, and the pure southern innocence radiated off him in waves.

The bell above to door rang, and a petite Asian woman walked up, slid into the seat next to Jack, and, addressing Eric said, “sup, twink.”

Eric turned his focus on the girl with a laser focus. With his hands on his hips, “You come in my shop with those slanderous lies, and expect my baked goods? You heathen. How are you doin’? Do you want the same as usual?”

The girl laughed, dug in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled one dollar bill, and several piles of miscellaneous coins. Sliding it over, she nodded her assent to Eric. “I’m doing alright Bits. All the pieces for the show tomorrow are done, and Shits is taking the weekend off from Harvard to come hand out after.” 

Eric sorted out the car wash tokens and handed them back. He turned to Jack. “Darlin’, this was the artist I was telling you about!”

Jack looked over in surprise. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t the small Asian woman who was sitting next to him. She had pulled a pen out of her back pocket and was drawing a nude model on a paper napkin. Jack shifted awkwardly. Eric slid her mocha and turnover.

Jack cleared his throat awkwardly. “So eh, Larissa, we were talking about the painting in the hallway, I know that it’s abstract, but do you mind telling me the inspiration behind the piece?” Eric giggled at his formality. 

“Tits.”

“Oh, okay.”

Eric lost it, going from a giggle to a full cackle, even snorting as he inhaled. “Y’all, that was the best conversation I think I’ve ever witnessed. Lardo, he was trying to be subtle, you absolute buffoon.”

Lardo shrugged. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted. I have an art show coming up tomorrow. Would you mind not calling me Larissa? You can call me Lardo.” 

She looked up for the first time, making eye contact with a fairly confused looking Jack Zimmermann. “Holy shit, you’re that one hockey dude”

Jack waved awkwardly. “Hello. Yeah, that would be me.”

Lardo gestured at Eric, who was wiping tears out of his eyes. “I was the manager for Bitty’s old college team. We watched you choose your jersey and everything, man. You should have heard Bits gush about you, man, he wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”

Eric was shooting her with laser eyes again, gesturing at her wildly to shut up, obviously threatening her turnover with great bodily harm. 

She maintained eye contact with Eric, and mimicked a frankly terrible southern accent. “Oh lord, Lardo, the things I would do to that boy—“

She was cut off by a swift hand to the mouth, stifling her words, which she slobbered on. Eric wiped his hand off on her sleeve and washed his hands.

Jack turned red and choked on his coffee, decided it was all in good humor, and started laughing. “Chirp chirp, Eric. Seems like you were more than a” he changed his accent from his slow Canadian accent to a southern drawl, much higher than his normal tone. “Bit of a fan”

Lardo cackled so loud other people in the café looked up.

Eric threw a car wash token at her, which she caught in mid-air. “Don’t listen to a word this blasphemous woman says. I am a gentleman.”

“Of course.”

They ended up chatting for another hour and a half, until Jack had run out of coffee twice (Eric refilled it), and Lardo had gone through three turnovers.

He excused himself, but left grinning.

Maybe, just maybe, he had found a coffee shop he would like to come back too.

 

Jack got up the same time the next day, humming and excited. He pulled on his sweatpants, running shoes, a shirt, and a hat that didn’t have hockey labels plastered all over them. He fed his fish before locking up his apartment, and swept out the door. 

Jack had a soft smile his whole run to the coffee shop.

The little bell rang above the door.

He walks in a little out of breath, wiping his forehead off with the hem of his shirt. What he didn’t notice was the blond that was staring at his exposed stomach from over the counter flush bright red.

He pulled his earbuds out, waited behind a kindly old woman who certainly took her time ordering, and sidled up to the customer side of the bar shyly.

“Hey Eric”

Eric smiled widely. “Glad you’re back, Mr. Zimmermann. What would you be wantin’ today?”

Jack shrugged softly, saying that he would like a black coffee, and another lemon bar, because that was super tasty last time.

 

Eric lit up. “Oh, almost forgot, I made you a present! One second” He ducked under the counter, and pulled a lemon scone out from behind the pastry boxes.

Jack stared at in amazement.  
“You.. took the time out of your day to make me a lemon scone?”

“Well, yeah! You said you wanted one, and I feel bad you didn't get one yesterday. A new customer in my humble little café? I’ve got to make a good impression, especially for you, Mr. Zimmermann.” Eric’s ears were red, his faint freckles shining on the brightened skin.

Jack paid, put a twenty in the tip jar, and sat down. “Well, you've certainly made an impression. Nate is going to have my head for the number of baked goods I'm going to be eating if everything is as good as what I had yesterday. I have to keep my physique somehow.” He rolled his shoulders, shyly making eye contact with Eric, who looked like he was about to pass out, so he lightened up on the teasing. 

“Thank you though, honestly! I haven't had one of these scones in years-” he was cut off by a loud tinkle by the door, and immediately footsteps thudding closer and closer to where Eric and Jack were.

Lardo stood panting, still wearing paint covered overalls and a paintbrush in her hair. “Bitty, I need your help.”

She looked like a mess. There here huge bags under her eyes, she was shaking, and she looked like she hadn't slept at all last night. 

Eric went from flushed cheeks and soft looks to straight-spined and brittle voiced in an instant. “Anything, what's the matter?”

Lardo tugged at her hair anxiously, her nail beds already chewed down to nubs.

“I was just tipped off that there are going to be two of the harshest art critics in the area, at my art show tonight, and I don’t know what to do.” 

She clawed at her pocket, pulling out a five dollar bill that had a mustache drawn on Lincoln’s face, and a pile of quarters. “It was going to be a quiet event, but now I was told that the critics give a better rating if there are more people there. This is my chance to get into one of the best art equity programs offered. Can I put flyers up in here?”

Eric nods in agreement, and hands Lardo his today's specials blackboard, with a piece of chalk. “Here love, you can put your art show on this. Whenever you do the lettering, it always gets compliments, so I know people look at it. I’ll tweet it out, too.”

Lardo looked thankful, and began erasing Bitty’s today's special: lemon scones! and replacing it with elegant letters. “ you’re coming tonight, right Bitty?”

She looked up, realizing Jack was there for the first time. ‘Oh, if you want to come, you would be more than welcome. I need more people there.” Eric chimed in that he indeed be attending, and bringing treats. 

Jack shifted in his seat. “I’d love to come, but, uh, how many people do you need? I’ve got a couple of friends I could bring if you need more people.”

Lardo’s eyes looked slightly glazed as she turned to look at Jack. “As many as humanly possible.” Her hands shook gently as she made grabby hands at Bitty, urging him for her coffee. 

Jack sent off a text that said, “calling in a favor. Art show, Fancy dress. Poots, brush your hair.” with the address.

He turned off his phone, and turned back to the conversation.

Bitty was handing a large mocha with whipped cream to lardo, and asking, “when was the last time you slept, hon? You look like you've seen the devil.”

Lardo chugged the mocha, not putting the cup down till it was empty. “I've heard sleep-induced hallucinations are quite inspiring. I’m getting there.“

Jack reached for her wrist, but hesitated. “Uh, can I touch you? Um, only to take your pulse, but it's okay if you don't want me to, I've just heard that a lack of sleep can really mess with you.”

Lardo held out her hand. “ thanks for asking.”

Her heartbeat was all over the place, and Jack was worried™. 

“Bitty, her heartbeat is pretty inconsistent. Is there somewhere we can have her take a rest for a while?”

Bitty walked around the counter and grabbed Lardo’s hand. “I have a little break room in the back, she can take a nap there.”

Jack offered his help, but Eric waved him off. “Now, Mr. Zimmermann, I can handle this five-foot bundle of art and stress. You finish your coffee.”

Lardo squinted at Eric angrily. “I’m five foot one.” but Eric was already leading Lardo to the back room.

Jack looked down at his half-finished cup of coffee, now lukewarm. He took another sip, grimacing at the flavor of cold coffee.

Eric had called Lardo “love”. Were they dating? They seemed to get along so well, Jack wouldn't be surprised. Besides, Eric had called lardo “Larissa”, and she didn’t let anyone else call her that. right?

Jack was wrapped up in thought, (and was definitely not sulking) when Eric walked back out.

“She crashed as soon as she touched the mattress. She did ask that I was set up her studio though, so I’m going to call in a favor from a friend, have him take over work for the rest of the day.”

Jack stood. “Um, Eric, do you want a hand? I don’t have anything to do today, and I’m good at cleaning.” (That was a lie, he had cardio with Tater, but he really didn’t want to do cardio, when there was a new and interesting Eric To get to know. He would apologize to Tater later.)

Eric looked up. “That would be great, actually. I love Lardo dearly, but she is a bit of a slob. There’s paint everywhere. Floor, ceiling, in her hair, in my hair, you know it. Her studio apartment is just upstairs, should be pretty quick.”

Eric waited till a lithe Asian man showed up, wearing a Sharks jersey. “Chowder, thank you so much for taking my shift. You can take all of today’s tips, plus hourly. I owe you and Farmer my life, and like, sixteen pies.”

The proclaimed Chowder was staring dumbfounded at Jack. “that’s Zimmermann. Bitty, how on earth-”

Bitty was already pulling an apron around Chowder’s head, pinning a little name tag that said “Chris” with a little shark drawing on the side of it, and patting him affectionately on the cheek. “No time, honey. Text me your list of baked goods you want in exchange for this, now, we really must be off.”

He ran off, with Jack confused. He waved a quick goodbye to a very excited Chowder, and ran after Eric. 

Through the front door of the cafe, and an immediate sharp turn to a tiny set of steep stairs, leading up. Eric pounded up them, leaving all of Jack’s Stairmaster workouts seemingly useless as he made sure he didn’t trip on the crooked little staircase.

He entered the door at the top of the stairs, and was greeted with Bitty, who was motionless in absolute shock.

Red solo cups littered every surface, filled with paint water or beer, or an ungodly mixture of both. Huge canvases covered the big pieces, but there were several sculptures scattered and strewn across the floor, along with what seemed to be a huge, nude mural, painted directly on the hardwood floor.

Eric groaned. “This is a rental.”

Jack grabbed a trash bag, and started picking up the solo cups, dumping the muddy drinks into the paint splattered sink. “I’ll start clearing surfaces. I’m not sure what's sculpture and what's not, so can you grab everything important, and make sure I don't throw anything artsy away?”

Eric agreed, plugged his phone into the large speaker system, and started playing a song that Jack couldn’t place, but did recognize. “Is this Rihanna?”

The screech he got in response was an answer that NO, it most certainly was not.

They spent the rest of the afternoon listening to Beyonce and cleaning.

Jack mopped. He was even very careful to go around the mural on the floor, because although it was of a very naked man with a pornstach’, it was art and should be respected.

He washed out and put away all the brushes, hardware and stuffed the unopened beers into the beat up mini fridge, which Jack hoped that wasn’t an art piece.

Eric had pulled a box of fairy lights out of Lardo’s closet and was sitting, in the butterfly stretch (heels tucked completely into his groin and knees all the way on the floor.) trying to untangle the absolute mess of thin wire. Jack tried not to stare, but Eric was honestly intimidatingly flexible. 

Once all surfaces were mopped and wiped down, Jack organized the scattered paints into the proper color coordinated drawers, because Jack likes organizing things. Especially by color. Everything fit, it was good; primary, secondary, tertiary. The colors all had a special place where they belonged, and he wished all things were like that.

Jack found an adjustable drafting table, flattened it out and threw a table cloth over it, making a nice table in the corner of the room. He sent a text to a local winery and asked if they accepted last-minute private venue tastings. They did, so Jack sent them his card info and booked them for the night.

He joined Eric on the floor, helping to untangle the other side of the lights. “So, are you and Lardo dating?”

Eric spluttered. “No, darlin. She’s dating Shitty.”

“who?” 

Eric flushed, embarrassed. “I actually don’t know his real name. I don’t know if anyone does. We all just call him Shitty. And we’re not bein’ mean, don’t you worry about that. He initiated the name, I think.” He gestured to the large mural on the floor. “This is the man in question, in all of his exposed-ballsack glory. So no, Lardo and I aren't dating. I um, I don’t really swing that way.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Sorry I assumed.”

Eric looked nervously down at his shoes, which were ratty and had a hole in the sole.

“It’s okay sweetpea. I don’t really tell people, it’s natural to assume.”

 

And they strung up the lights, pulled the studio show boxes out, and placed and draped and modeled everything to near perfection. It had grown dark out, nearing four o’clock.

The show started at six.

Eric had pulled the chalkboard from the sidewalk outside his cafe and was detailing “art show” on it when Jack spoke up again.

“Um, Eric? I should run home and get dressed. I’m sweaty and covered in old beer and paint, and could go for a shower.”

Eric looked up at Jack. “You can call me Bitty, honey. And I should shower too, I’m a stinky mess. I’ll see you in two hours, though?”

Jack looked at Eric in surprise. “okay, Bitty. Oh, almost forgot. The winery will be here to set up in an hour, can we leave the door open for them?”

Bitty blinked. “Sorry, what? What winery?”

Jack shuffled his feet. “Well, there was an empty space in the back, and I figured, it was a big night for Lardo, she deserved it? So I set up a little table, and so you can have wine like fancy people. The food was included in the wine deal, if that helps.” (It wasn’t)

“Jack, darlin', Lardo and I put together couldn’t afford that, is it too late to cancel? If not I can use my credit card and pay it off in chunks, but after the bakery’s rent…” he drifted off into thought, tugging at his hair gently.

It took a minute, but Jack finally understood the situation. “Oh oh oh oh. Wait, Eri-Bitty, this was a present. From me to Lardo? You won’t have to pay for a dime of it. I’d like to do something nice for you guys.”

Eric looked up at Jack, confused. “That’s, too kind? Jack, that's, like, a few hundred dollars.” (It was more than a few hundred)

Jack shrugged, embarrassed. 

It’s not like Jack was trying to brag, he just never grew up thinking about money. He always had access to whatever he wanted, and he tried his best to make his friends happy. “I wanted to treat Lardo. Besides, the critics would probably like it, right? Fancy wine at an amazing art gallery.”

Bitty still looked guilty, but held out his arms in the universal “hug?” Sign, and Jack slipped into Bitty’s arms briefly, squeezing gently and excusing himself to run home and shower. He really was sweaty.

He ran home, thinking about the little southern blond baker.

In the shower though, it was a different story.

It always was. There was another blond, each line and muscle etched into the back of jacks mind. 

with shifting colors in his eyes, thin hips and the worst case of neediness he had ever seen. Burned into the back of his eyes were the filthy things moaned into his ear, burning down his spine. A threat, or a promise, he wasn’t sure, but it sent a thrill down his back. 

His hand wrapped around himself, tugging almost too rough.

Smaller hands with long, thin fingers running up his chest, and his own hands, bigger and wider, pinning the blond down, dragging his hands across the reddening handprints burned into his thighs, dipping into the curves and valleys of his body. 

The thought of his hands around someone else’s throat made Jack’s legs shake so bad he nearly slipped in the hot steamy water. The grand finalé was the idea of somebody doing that to him, having him on his knees, pinning him down, biting demanding marks into his skin made Jack spill into his fist. 

White stripes painted over his hands, and his knees nearly buckled under him. Jack usually pushed those ideas to the back of his mind, because he wasn’t supposed to feel that way. 

He stared at the shower drain, a little guilty.

He rinsed off again, toweling off and pulling on his best suit. He looked in the steamy mirror, trying to control his hair that always seemed to hang in front of his eyes, no matter how he combed it. His cheeks were flushed, too, which was just as mortifying as it could have possibly been. He splashed his face with cold water, hoped for the best and headed to his car.

When he arrived, Bitty was at the door, looking incredibly flustered. “You’re early, but thank you for coming. Jack, why there is essentially a whole team of caterers here? There’s caviar, Jack. Caviar! I had to lend them my kitchen, there’s not enough space in here.” 

His hair wasn’t brushed yet, and little pieces stood out on the sides, looking like there were fingers run through it in rush. 

Jack pulled a face. “I never really liked caviar. Too salty, I guess. I’m sorry about your kitchen, though. Is there anything I can do?”

Bitty was wearing a blue tight fitting suit, with the tie still hanging around his neck, not yet tied. Jack tried not to ogle, but the line of Eric’s jawline, traveling down his neck and disappearing into the unbuttoned neckline of his dress shirt was fairly destructive to Jack’s main train of thought. 

The suit itself that bitty wore was a little worn out, but obviously well taken care of. There were little stitch marks where the suit had been meticulously stitched back together, and the cuffs were a little faded. He looked amazing. 

He stepped aside, letting Jack in. “You’re fine sweetpea, I’m just getting ready. I don’t think there’s much else to do, unless you have something you need to do?” Jack shook his head, quitting his staring.

He was about to say that he was here to just help out when a better-rested but still frazzled Lardo, who was shuffling upstairs in a sleepy panic burst through the door with a “What the FUCK did you do to my studio” as a greeting. 

She managed to fix her eyeliner and pull on a simple black dress with minimal panic before people started to show up. 

The first to come in was a tall man with a swanky mustache that immediately pounced on Lardo, ruffling her hair and calling her “one motherfuckin aesthetic beast” and complimenting how clean her studio was.

Eric leaned up to Jack, putting one gentle hand on his forearm for balance. “That would be Shitty. He’s a Harvard law student, was on my hockey team in college, and Lardo’s boyfriend.” 

Once the proclaimed “Shitty” was done harassing Lardo, he swept up to Bitty, sweeping him into a big twirling hug. “Bits, you absolute thick-dick legend, you made Lard’s studio look like a pottery barn magazine cover.”

Bitty laughed, smashing his face into Shitty’s collar. “I had help.” 

That’s when Shitty noticed Jack.  
He basically dropped Eric, who yelped in indignation. 

“You’re Jack. fuckin. Zimmermann”

Jack looked up from where he was filling his champagne fluke up with water out of Lardo’s paint-stained sink. “Uh, yeah, apparently.” 

Shitty’s pupils got even bigger, his eyes focusing on something behind Jack. “And you’re Alexei Mashkov.”

Jack turned around to see Tater, who was hunched over, trying to sneak up on him. 

“You ruin my game, sexy mustache man!” Tater pouted at Shitty but swept Jack into a hug all the same. 

Almost all of the Providence Falconers poured through the doors after Tater, except Thirdy, who was on kid-sitting duty. He did send his wife, however; who brought a friend as a “girls night out” 

Shitty nearly had a heart attack at the fifteen or so hockey players in suits that all ambled around the gallery, complimenting the pieces and harassing each other. He immediately went to Lardo again, excitedly talking about how a motherfucking famous hockey player called him a “sexy mustache man.”

Poots walked up to Jack, who was talking gently to Eric. “Am I allowed to, like, buy this?” He gestured to a large abstraction, that had deep blues and silvers. Jack pointed him at Lardo, who was talking with Marty and Snowy, with a shitty on her arm. “She’ll tell you. Her name is Lardo. And hey, poots? You look good. Thanks for brushing your hair.”

Poots shot him a double thumbs up and walked over, along with several other hockey players, who also had pieces they wanted to purchase. 

The party drew on later into the night, with the servers bringing out more champagne. Bitty was pink in the cheeks, and a bit more giggly than usual, but was still quite under control for the amount of alcohol he had in his system at the point. 

When Jack asked him about it, he got “I lived in a frat house, Sweetpea. I can handle my liquor.” He became increasingly giggly as the night continued, however, and definitely had a few cups past his limit. 

A tall dark skinned woman stepped through the doorway, followed by a shorter pasty and rather out of breath man, holding little notebooks and stern expressions. A quick glance to Lardo proved that these were indeed the critics that she was so worried about. 

She went from animated and joyful to pale and clammy in a matter of seconds. 

Immediately behind them, was a lithe blond man, with a matte satin navy suit Jacket slung over a white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. He didn’t see Jack, but was looking around at the impressive artwork. Jack ducked out of the way, palms sweating nervously. 

Jack mumbled to Eric about having a headache, told him that he gave Lardo his credit card info if anyone needed anything, and slipped away as soon as he could. He went downstairs, sat in his car and shook, before driving home. 

He would explain to Bitty tomorrow why he had to leave.


	2. I had a really cool song lyric for this but Uuh I lost it so here’s what we got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It be real gay.
> 
> this is a short chapter, lord forgive me.

-my headass writing switches POVs every other sentence , sorry. This is supposed to be Bitty’s POV-

Lardo was busy with the critics, Jack had to leave for some unknown reason, and there was a bunch of giant hockey players were swarming the food platters. Bitty ran down to his café, (which was closed, thanks to Chowder) and grabbed all the leftover cookies, put them on a nice platter and brought them back upstairs. 

When he dropped the platter off, it was very nearly cleaned off immediately. Bitty shook his head, and muttered “hockey boys”. 

A taller blond man sidled up to Bitty with half a cookie in his hand and a full wine glass of champagne in the other. “Mmh, where did you get these? Super tasty.”

Bitty looked over in surprise. “Oh, I made them. bless your heart. I run a little café, it’s downstairs!” 

The man’s eyes widened. “You made these? Holy shit, man, that’s honestly really impressive. I think I have a whole ass kitchen in my house that I don’t think I’ve literally ever used.” He looked at Eric through is eyelashes. “I’ll have to stop by your café, I have the worst sweet tooth you’ve ever seen. My diet suffers daily.” He leaned up to one of the counters off to the side of the gallery, and bitty joined him off to the right. 

Eric shook his head, disappointed. “What’s this? A whole kitchen, never used? I was using the community kitchens for a whole year, and yet nobody told me there was a perfectly good never-before-used kitchen in your own house this whole time? I ought to file a complaint.” He turned to face the blond man, and nearly stumbled as he made eye contact with him.

The eyes he was staring into were shifting, never really the same color, but right now they were a pale grey, dark and tempting. The ruffled hair and shadow of a bruise shadowing his lower jaw highlighted the sex appeal of this guy, and Bitty just about swooned. The blond’s eyes traced along Bitty’s jawline, and asked, “can I get a name to go with your pretty face?”

Bitty’s brain puddled out of his ears. “Eric”

The blond split into a crooked smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Kent, but feel free to call me whatever you want.” 

Kent - blond - the bruise- Bitty’s alcohol muddled brain struggled to process how he knew this man. “Kent, darlin, are you from a baking show? You look awful familia- Hockey! You’re a hockey player! You’re Kent fucking Parson. What the fuck, okay. Goodness, there are so many famous people in this room I could just about die.” He lent over, fanning his face with his hand. 

 

Kent smiled dryly over the rim of his oversized wine glass. “Bingo. Tonight though, I’m not a hockey player, I’m here to look at some art, get drunk and hopefully not spend the night alone.”

Bitty blushed. “Sounds like a valiant conquest. I’m sure you’re able to handle that.” He put his almost empty glass down on the counter, and grabbed a new one off of a passing server’s tray, thanking them. 

“So, Mr. Parson, what do you do outside of hockey?” Eric busied himself with the stem of the wine glass, taking a small sip and making a face. 

Kent laughed awkwardly. “To tell you the truth, not much. I do some volunteer work for at risk youth when I can, and I run an instagram account for my cat, but I’m afraid I’m not very interesting. I’m a bit of an introvert.” 

Eric bumped elbows with him. “I think you’re interesting. I follow your cat on instagram, you always do the best captions. You’re different than most guys, but I think that’s a good thing.” 

Kent’s ears turned red and he looked at his shoes. “Thanks, Eric. I don’t hear that a lot and it’s nice to get positive affirmations once and a while.”

Eric laughed lightly. ”Darlin, I’ll shower you in praise any day, but for now can I get you anything?”

Kent downed the rest of his glass, looking degectedly at the bottom of his empty cup. “Well, I looked at some art, I’m sufficiently drunk, so would you like to join me at my place for a cup of coffee. 

Bitty choked on his tongue. “Are you inviting me back to your Apartment, Kent Parson? We’ve had half a conversation. What if I’m  
A serial killer?” 

Kent shrugged, looking amused at the idea. “You win some, you lose some.” 

Eric ran that through his head for a second. “Now- wait a minute. That doesn’t make a lick of sense. That would be the ultimate lose. You’d die.” 

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, Eric. Death doesn’t scare me, especially if it comes by the hands of someone like you.” Kent clumsly set his empty wine glass down and scooped some of the cookie crumbs off of the empty platter that was next to him. 

 

I’d love to see your brand new kitchen, if the offer entails me a small tour of the baking supplies.” He glanced up into Kent’s eyes through his eyelashes. 

Kent seemed genuine, and probably wasn’t a serial killer, so Eric decided why not.


End file.
